Major Arcana
by hollyand
Summary: A series of ficlets based on the 22 Major Arcana of the Tarot. Each of them shall be loosely based on either the upright or reversed meaning - or both. Contains various canon (or semi-canon) DA2 pairings, although this website doesn't allow me to list them all here - see each chapter for which pairing (or none) is featured. Originally posted in 2014 on Archive Of Our Own.
1. I - The Magician (MHawke & Anders)

**Upright:** Power, skill, concentration, action, resourcefulness;  
 **Reversed:** Manipulation, poor planning, latent talents.

Male Hawke/Anders one-shot. Five times Hawke watched Anders heal.

(Also, hard prompt is hard.)

* * *

The first time Garrett Hawke watched Anders healing, he couldn't stop staring.

The healer stood over the makeshift bed, hands aglow with a pale blue, otherworldly light, floating them over the small, broken body of a boy that Hawke was sure couldn't be saved. The hopeful faces of the crowd watched the healer as intently as Hawke did, but Anders ignored them all, remaining completely focused on the boy laid out in front of him, palms hovering over every part of the body, his luminous magic bathing the child in soothing light.

It wasn't just that Hawke had never met another mage before (not counting family, of course). It was the fact that Anders was clearly a skilled and powerful mage, and Hawke had never met such an able healer before. Malcolm was the only person with healing magic Hawke had ever known, and he had imparted all he knew of that school to his two mage children – which amounted to basic healing and rejuvenation spells, nothing more.

Anders frowned in concentration, and his hands glowed brighter; so bright Hawke had to narrow his own eyes against the white-hot intensity of the healer's hands. Bone knitted together, blood seeped back into the skin, and where Hawke had thought the boy lost, he now began to wonder if he'd grossly underestimated the mage's healing talents.

Finally, there was a cough and a splutter, and against all the odds, the boy opened his eyes and sat up, as if he'd just woken from a long sleep.

It was at that point Hawke realised Anders was someone he wanted.

The second time Hawke saw Anders healing was in the Deep Roads.

The expedition was the only thing that would keep the templars off his back – off both their backs, Hawke had persuaded him, despite Anders's protestations of his hatred of the Deep Roads and his phobia of being underground. But Anders came, because Hawke asked him, and Hawke couldn't tell Anders how much he appreciated it.

Going by what they faced down there – darkspawn, profane, rock wraiths, Bartrand's betrayal for a lyrium idol – Hawke wondered, more than once, whether the riches they eventually found were really worth anything they went through. Even once they found the promised treasure, there was no guarantee that they'd even make it back to Kirkwall alive, and they were fast running out of rations.

And then Carver contracted the Taint on the way back to the surface, and Hawke was faced with the prospect of losing his last remaining sibling; but it was Anders who took action when Hawke was in distress, it was Anders who proved resourceful enough to find the Grey Wardens just so that Carver stood some chance of being saved. It was Anders who decided to risk the wrath of the Wardens he'd deserted some months before, risking the chance they might even kill him as a traitor on sight, just for a slim hope that Hawke's little brother would not die from the Taint.

It was Anders who used his spirit healing on Carver (who, for once, didn't grumble) at intervals to keep him going, however temporarily, until the Wardens could be found.

It was at that point, when Carver was carried away by Stroud, that Hawke realised Anders was someone he needed.

The third time Hawke watched Anders heal was when Hawke became the Champion of Kirkwall.

Bruised, bloody, but unbowed, Hawke basked in the glory of defeating the Arishok in single combat and driving the Qunari from the city once and for all. Anders watched with relief and pride as his lover – his handsome, talented, magic-wielding lover – was declared Champion of Kirkwall by Knight Commander Meredith. In spite of her obvious distaste, in spite of her obvious frustration that she could do nothing about the apostate standing before her, she hailed him in front of the admiring nobles – in front of the whole populace – as the saviour of the city, to unanimous cheers.

Hawke had always been a powerful mage, and now he was the most powerful man in Kirkwall. Anders tended to his wounds that night, healing them in the bed they shared.

'I never thought I'd see the day an apostate would be the most important man in Kirkwall, love,' Anders murmured as Hawke's bruises vanished under his touch.

'I couldn't have done it without you, Anders,' Hawke replied.

It was at that point Hawke knew Anders was someone he would always love, no matter what.

The fourth time Hawke saw Anders heal, Anders lied to him.

There was no potion, Anders had said, despite making his lover root through the sewers and Bone Pit caves for some combination of human and dragon effluence to supposedly concoct a potion that would help separate him and Justice.

After using his magic to set a broken leg, Anders had shooed the patient out of his clinic just to tell Hawke he'd been manipulated into helping Anders into something that his lover couldn't – _wouldn't_ – tell him about. Something that would apparently help the cause of mages, conveniently forgetting that he, Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, was also a mage.

Something big. Something bad. Something possibly also very shitty.

Hawke choked back his hysterical desire to laugh as the tears sprung to his eyes. It was bad enough that he hardly saw his lover anymore; worse still that Anders wouldn't tell him what was going on. Worse still that after everything they shared, Anders didn't trust him enough to tell him what was going on.

It was at that point Hawke realised no one could break his heart like Anders did.

The fifth time Hawke watched Anders heal, everything had gone to hell.

The chantry had been blown sky high in a cloud of red light and ash, Grand Cleric Elthina was dead, Meredith ordered the immediate execution of all mages and called on the Champion's support, which he refused. In the midst of it all stood Anders, taking full and unashamed responsibility for the chaos he'd unleashed. Anders, blond and handsome and fierce and not even trying to keep control of Justice anymore, and Hawke had been so angry and betrayed it hurt to even look at him.

It wasn't as if Hawke thought Anders wasn't justified in what he'd done; Hawke had already heard from Karras that Meredith had already sent for the Rite of Annulment to be used on the Circle. The mages were condemned no matter what happened. No, Hawke only wished that Anders had trusted him, rather than somehow thinking he was protecting his lover by acting alone.

Hawke would not kill him, no matter what Fenris said. They had mages to save.

The battle raged through the entire city and went on for days; Carver rejoined his brother from the Grey Wardens, and Hawke found, through his own emotional turmoil, that he was glad to have his brother's blade at his side again. For once, Carver's presence anchored him, even while he fought with and yelled at Anders through some difficult conversations.

Until Orsino turned on them, then Knight Commander Meredith turned on everyone, and when Knight Captain Cullen let them leave in peace, Hawke watched on the deck of Isabela's ship as Anders went around healing everyone's battle injuries.

'I'm sorry,' Anders said for the twentieth time as he approached Hawke.

Hawke sighed. 'I know,' he said, reaching out to cup Anders's cheek, his hand glowing with his own healing magic.

It was at that point Anders realised Hawke had forgiven him.


	2. II - The High Priestess (no pairing)

**Upright:** Intuition, higher powers, mystery, subconscious mind;  
 **Reversed:** Hidden agendas, need to listen to inner voice.

Keeper Marethari talks to Feynriel about his powers shortly before 'Night Terrors'.

* * *

'Keeper. I – I can't do this.'

'Feynriel,' Keeper Marethari's voice was soothing, seemingly untroubled, 'what you have is an exceptionally rare gift. So rare, it was supposed to be extinct for over two hundred years. It won't be easy to master.'

Feynriel covered his face with his hands. 'The nightmares. They won't stop! I – I want to, but I can't!'

Marethari folded her hands in her lap, dispassionately observing the fair-haired boy before her. 'The Tome of the Slumbering Elders was a journal written by the last dreamer of our clan. Has it not helped you, child?'

Feynriel sighed, and removed his hands from his face. 'Not – not really.' He fidgeted and looked down. 'I've been trying. I – I know it can be powerful if I just learned to control it. The Tome talked about a lot about "uthenera". Maybe all the elves were dreamers – somniari – once.' He lifted his eyes to meet Marethari's; she kept her face carefully expressionless. 'Can the elves really not help me?'

Marethari didn't answer straight away. 'Do you remember any of your dreams upon waking, Feynriel?'

'Sometimes. I know the demons are plaguing me, but it's getting harder to tell them apart.'

'You have done well to resist them so far, child. Due to your ability to shape the Fade and affect the dreams of others, somniari attract demons far more strongly than other mages do. Your subconscious mind must be stronger than you thought.'

Feynriel shook his head. 'No. It's getting harder to tell with each passing dream. It did get easier when I first came here, but then – the demons changed. I can no longer tell what their agendas or disguises are. I have to rely on intuition, or even plain luck, to find them out and banish them.' He shuddered. 'It frightens me. I feel like I can no longer trust my sleeping mind.'

'You cannot go without sleep, Feynriel.'

'I know. I know I can't. But – I'm afraid…'

'Would it help you if I sent for Arianni in the alienage? She can stay with us tonight. It might help if you had someone to put your mind at rest before you sleep.'

'My mother?' Feynriel tilted his head to one side, considering. 'I suppose it could help.'

Marethari nodded, and stood up. 'I will find Pol and ask him to fetch Arianni for you. He knows his way around the city.'

'Thank you, Keeper,' Feynriel smiled, and Marethari's heart ached. She sincerely hoped Arianni's presence would help the boy, but deep down she sorely doubted it would. Feynriel's sleep of late had been more disturbed, more violent, and it was getting harder to wake him with each passing day.

It was only a matter of time before he was lost to one of his nightmares, and she didn't want to think of what they might have to do to him when that happened.


	3. III - The Empress (FHawke & Isabela)

**Upright:** Fertility, femininity, beauty, nature, abundance;  
 **Reversed:** Creative block, dependence on others.

Female Hawke/Isabela one-shot, set during 'Mark of the Assassin'.

* * *

'…It's just that – you're the Champion of Kirkwall. Big. Important. Just wondering... if there's a husband behind the throne.'

Marian Hawke raised an eyebrow in interest. Isabela had to suppress her desire to snort at Tallis's innocent-but-not-so-innocent inquiry. 'Yes,' Isabela answered, before Hawke could. 'That's a _very_ good question, isn't it?'

Hawke coughed awkwardly. 'Let's keep moving.'

For all her breezy casualness about relationships, there was something about Hawke and Tallis flirting with each other that rubbed Isabela up the wrong way. Not that she minded Hawke doing it – Hawke flirted with everyone, like Isabela did. One of the reasons Isabela loved – sorry, _liked_ ; where did that word come from? – her was because she recognised in the other woman a kindred spirit: fun, freedom, and bad-ass independence.

(That, and the fact that Isabela was her queen in the bedroom. Champion of Kirkwall or not.)

What she didn't like was the way Tallis was trying to muscle in on Hawke without so much as a thought for Isabela standing right beside her. The very least the red-headed elf could do was ask Isabela to join in. Tallis was cute enough; Isabela wouldn't say no.

Plus, Isabela really wasn't used to being ignored.

Hmmm. She'd simply have to show that smart-mouthed redhead who was boss.

~*o*~*o*~

'Just how long has this wyvern hunt been going on?' Hawke asked as they jogged through the grassy clearing. The sun streamed through the tall, verdant trees, dappling the lush vegetation on the ground with occasional patches of light among the long shadows, and Isabela welcomed the fresh, light breeze on her face. It wasn't the same as being out on the ocean, but it would do. The scent of pine trees on the air was soothing, at least.

'It's an annual tradition the Montforts began to keep the population down,' Tallis answered. 'They breed quickly.'

'And the Orlesian nobility is only too happy to help out?'

Tallis shrugged. 'It's a game. The Montforts are close to the Empress, so anything that pleases them is worth pursuing. Plus you should really try the aquae lucidius. You'll be seeing purple dragons in the sky for days.'

'Purple dragons?' Merrill piped up, and Isabela looked at her. Being out of the city and surrounded by nature seemed to bring the little elf back to her usual perky self. 'Like Asha'bellanar?'

'No, Kitten,' Isabela said, patiently. 'Not those sorts of purple dragons. These ones aren't real.'

'Oh. Why would anyone do it then?'

'Fun. A new experience.'

Merrill looked confused. 'I haven't heard of anything like that among the Dalish.'

Isabela was about to reply, when out of the corner of her eye she saw Tallis saunter up to Hawke with an expression of worship on her face. Behind her, however, was a shadow of a dragonling up ahead.

How conveniently timed.

'Oh good! I was getting a bit bored!' Isabela yelled, unsheathing her daggers with a flourish and sprinting over to the roaring dragon.

'I'm pretty sure this one is real!' cried Merrill as she ran alongside her, unslinging her staff.

~*o*~*o*~

'Come on in, Hawke! The water's lovely.'

Hawke laughed. 'It's fine, Isabela. Merrill and Tallis –'

'Tallis can keep a look-out,' Isabela interrupted, standing thigh-deep in the sun-warmed lake. 'She didn't catch too much of the dragonling blood on her. She doesn't have so much of it to wash off. The rest of us could do with a splash.'

'Oooh, yes,' Merrill chirped, already removing her olive scarf and leather greaves. 'That's a wonderful idea, Isabela! You always have the best ideas.'

Isabela laughed. 'Don't I just,' she said airily, as Merrill stripped off the last of her clothing and jumped into the water with a splosh. Isabela stretched out her arms and arched her back, making sure Hawke was watching her large, round breasts almost bursting to get out of her corseted tunic. Tallis narrowed her eyes at her; then looked back to Hawke, uncertainly.

'Hawke. We need to find that wyvern, and we need to find some bait. We… really don't have time for this.'

Hawke stood on the grassy banks of the lake; her expression was impassive as she watched Isabela, but Isabela could see the bob of her Adam's apple as she gulped. A slow smirk crept across Isabela's face, and she carefully unthreaded the laces of her corset, lowering her gaze seductively, keeping her amber eyes firmly on Hawke's.

Finally, Hawke took a step towards the lake. 'Tallis, you keep watch,' she said, voice firm, removing her gauntlets.

Isabela flung her tunic in Tallis's direction, revelling in the sunshine on her naked bronzed flesh, laughing as Hawke stripped bare and jumped in beside her. Merrill was happily splashing a little further away, the snow-capped grey mountains making a perfect backdrop to her enjoyment of the wide lake.

Hawke herself was a fine specimen of feminity, even if she preferred not to display any of it in public, and Isabela never tired of seeing her lover out of her armour. She backed away, going deeper into the lake, and beckoned Hawke towards her, letting the Champion drink in her own ample curves – Isabela had always taken pride in her body, and appreciated that Hawke delighted in it as much as she did – and Hawke swam over to embrace her, creamy pale skin against brown, soft breast against soft breast, wet and warm below the vast blue sky.

'We won't be a minute!' Isabela cheerfully called over Hawke's shoulder to Tallis, who stood forlornly on the side of the lake.

Hawke chuckled. 'The things you do to get me naked, Isabela,' she said, cradling Isabela's head in her hands. 'My own saucy pirate queen.'

Making sure Tallis was watching, Isabela slid her arms around her lover through the water, and winked. 'Don't tell me you don't appreciate the chance to get that dragonling blood off your skin,' she said smoothly. 'If you want to swim somewhere more… private, I can even help you, if you like.'


	4. IV - The Emperor (no pairing)

**Upright** : Authority, father-figure, structure, solid foundation;  
 **Reversed** : Domination, excessive control, rigidity, inflexibility.

Viscount Dumar has an argument with his son Saemus.

* * *

Sighing, Viscount Dumar slumped heavily into his chair, mopping his brow.

'Saemus,' he said to his son, 'you must understand. You cannot carry on as you do, traipsing about the Wounded Coast, spending time at the Qunari Compound. The former makes you a target for those who would seek to undermine me; the latter gives them a reason to do so.'

'No, Father,' Saemus's voice was firm. 'People need to see. The Qunari are not beasts to be feared, nor are they the enemy. Ashaad taught me –'

'I don't want to know what they taught you,' Dumar snapped, finally losing patience. 'You seem to forget you are not some idle nobleman's boy; you are the Viscount's son. I have enough trouble to contend with in this city without piling suspicions of Qunari influence in my own family on top. You are embarrassing this office.'

Saemus snorted. 'No more than this office already embarrasses itself.'

'Don't you talk back at me, boy,' the viscount thundered, glaring at him; Saemus stared back, resolute. 'I'll see to it that Bran has you confined to the Keep for a week.'

'But Father, the Arishok is not your enemy,' Saemus pressed, determined to make his father see. 'The Qunari –'

'– are not of Kirkwall, and therefore I am under no obligation to entertain them,' his father interrupted. 'I have enough demands and desires I have to try to appease, not least those of the Templar Order and the Chantry. I do not wish to share Perrin Threnhold's fate.'

'You will share his fate anyway if you refuse to acknowledge what is really going on in the city you claim to rule,' Saemus retorted.

'Enough!' Dumar seethed. 'Enough of your insolence! I don't want to hear any more on this subject, and I will not have you bringing up the Qunari again, do you hear me?'

'But Father –'

'And I will not hear of you running around with your – your Qunari friend again, do you hear me?'

'His name is Ashaad, Father.'

'I don't care,' Viscount Dumar spat. 'What is he to me that I should care for what he is called?'

'He is someone who made me see that things cannot stay as they are,' Saemus cried passionately, taking a step towards his father, who remained seated behind the intricately-carved desk. 'He has a certainty and will that I admire; and he is wise, strong, brave and – and beautiful,' Saemus blurted out, blushing, 'and I –'

Now he had his father's attention; the viscount stood up. 'What – what did you say?'

Saemus bowed his head. 'I love him, Father. We're together.'

'You –' Dumar stepped towards him, raising his hand as if to strike him; Saemus did not flinch, readying himself for the blow. To his surprise, the viscount lowered his hand, seeming to think better of it. His eyes, however, still blazed.

'Get out.'

'But Father –'

'Get out!' Dumar roared. 'Now!'

Saemus did as he was told; but as he was about to leave, he turned in the open doorway, and met his father eye to eye.

'If I want to go with Ashaad to the Qunari,' he said coldly, 'then neither you, nor anyone in your office, will stop me.'

He turned on his heel, and marched out.


	5. V - The Hierophant (Sebastian & Bethany)

**Upright:** Religion, group identification, conformity, tradition, beliefs;  
 **Reversed:** Restriction, challenging the status quo.

Sebastian struggles between his duty and his growing feelings for Bethany.

* * *

" _O Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights; steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked…_ "

Temptation, yes. Sebastian knew it well, even with his eyes closed and his hands joined in prayer.

Though if he were honest, 'wicked' was not a word one could ever use to describe the beautiful Bethany Hawke.

" _…Make me to rest in the warmest places…_ "

But, no. He could not think of her now. He'd taken vows; vows that were strong enough not to be broken by the sight of a pretty face or a pleasing figure.

He hoped his recitation of the twelfth chapter of Transfigurations, so soothing on every other occasion, would be enough to put his troubled heart at rest.

" _O Creator, see me kneel; for I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed, sing only the words You place in my throat…_ "

Tonight, here in the Chantry, while he knelt before the golden statue of Andraste, the Maker would hear his plea.

The Maker would guide him back to the path he was always meant to tread.

All Sebastian had to do was have faith. The Maker moved in mysterious ways, unknowable, infallible.

" _My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow…_ "

Everything the Maker allowed, everything the Maker did, happened for a reason.

Even the slaughter of his entire family, the ruling family of Starkhaven, which had been as devastating as it was thorough.

" _Lift me from a world of pain; judge me worthy of Your endless pride…_ "

It's not as if Sebastian never believed. He was ordained as a brother of a Chantry – unwillingly at first, perhaps, given the Vaels had forced him into a vow of celibacy merely to protect his brothers' children from any rival heirs he might produce – but Grand Cleric Elthina had told him, on that fateful night they had first met, that people served the Maker in many ways. 'You don't have to take vows to do his work', she had said to him, in that wise, gentle voice of hers, but accepted him into her flock anyway.

But now… Now his family were dead. He was the sole surviving heir to the throne. He was Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven once again.

And princes weren't meant for chastity.

" _My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace…_ "

And what if that was what the Maker intended? If there was more than one way to serve the Maker, as Elthina said, what if the Maker intended for Sebastian to serve Him by ruling Starkhaven in His name?

What if the Maker had judged that the time was ripe for him to do so, to carry His light while he led from the throne? For these were difficult times in the Free Marches.

Which would mean he would have to take a queen. He would have to renounce his vows of chastity, and beget the heirs that neither his parents nor his brothers wanted.

And Bethany – Bethany, with her sunny outlook; kind, radiant, graceful, honest and devout Andrastrian – would be perfect.

'You were made as you are. I have yet to see evidence of the Maker's fallibility. I certainly don't see any in you,' he had told her, and she had blushed so delightfully, the bloom in her cheeks a perfect contrast to her Circle mage robes. And oh, how he'd wanted her.

If only she wasn't a mage.

" _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed;  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval…_"

And even his being on the throne might not be enough to convince the populace that choosing a Circle mage for his queen would be the right thing to do.

He could take her as a mistress, of course; but no, Bethany was too good for that. She was too good for _him_ , if he were honest. If it wasn't for the fact that a shadow of his former playboy self still lived in him, he wouldn't even know how to talk to her – his light flirtations, so well practised on so many others, belied the depth of his true feelings.

" _O Maker, hear my cry. Seat me by Your side in death…_ "

And even if he renounced his claim to the throne, like Elthina advised, and remained within the Chantry for the rest of his days, what then? She was still a mage of the Circle, which was where she was supposed to be.

She was still out of his reach. The Maker had still sent her – perfect, beautiful her – to tempt him. It wasn't her fault she tempted him – it wasn't her fault she was as lovely as she was, she couldn't help it as much as he couldn't help being enticed by her – but he was still a Brother, and he still had to resist that temptation; to steel himself against her.

No matter how hard she made it for him.

" _Make me one within Your glory  
And let the world once more see Your favour…_"

He didn't know what to do. Both about the throne, and about Bethany.

He could only pray to the Maker to guide him. To tell him what was the right thing to do. To calm the unsettled mind and the conflicted soul that Transfigurations, for the first time in his life, had failed to put at ease.

" _For You are the fire at the heart of the world;  
And comfort is only Yours to give_."


	6. VI - The Lovers (Aveline & Donnic)

**Upright:** Love, union, relationships, values alignment, choices;  
 **Reversed:** Disharmony, imbalance, misalignment of values.

Aveline and Donnic get married.

* * *

Aveline never gets nervous. Even as she runs the hairbrush through her long, flame-coloured hair, her hands remain firm and steady. Merrill and Bethany are running around the room, chirping and chatting, fussing excitedly over her simple cream-coloured taffeta dress and matching tulle veil.

But Aveline is nervous today.

It is almost five years to the day that Wesley died, and by her own hand; by the same hand that bore the wedding ring that symbolised the promises she had made to him.

Aveline tries to calm herself. Donnic is a good man, and he shares many of the same values that she treasures; but Aveline cannot stop her mind wandering back to her first marriage and the regrets she can't help feeling, no matter how unjustified she knows those are. She says nothing, though, smiling gracefully as Merrill plaits two tendrils of her hair into small braids and wraps the rest of it into an elegant chignon; hoping that her conflicted feelings about her past and present marriages doesn't show.

Donnic can never replace Wesley, no one can; and she knows that, and she knows deep down that Wesley would never begrudge her a second chance at happiness, a second chance at love, a second chance to make things right – but that doesn't stop the tangle of emotions as Bethany slips the pale green sash around her shoulders, the slip of raw silk smooth on her skin, unfussy and uncomplicated, in a way her feelings are not.

Bethany tells Aveline she looks beautiful; from her reflection in the mirror she realises that she does, however she feels on the inside.

Aveline picks up her bouquet, allowing herself a small wry chuckle when she observes the ribbon-bound floral arrangement that Merrill has created for her. _Marigolds_. Obviously, she is never going to live that one down.

Another deep breath, for it is time. Merrill and Bethany straighten the train of her dress and her sash as she descends the stairs, ready to make her way out into the backyard, where everyone is waiting.

Hawke has fitted the Estate with drapes of green silk and chiffon in her honour, and affixed copper carvings to the walls, and Aveline is touched to see the effort her friend has made to surround her with a few of her favourite things. She emerges into the yard, where the guests are waiting, but for a moment she doesn't see them, doesn't hear their sighs as they take her in, the sunlight catching her ginger hair and setting it alight under her veil.

Aveline asked Hawke to stand beside her as the couple's best man. There is no 'giving her away,' because Aveline is her own woman and needs no man to give her away. The only person who might possibly be an exception to that rule is her father, and he cannot be here.

But she wants Hawke by her side anyway. Because Hawke has been by her side since… since Wesley, and it seems only fitting and proper that Hawke is the one to see her from her old life into her new one.

Aveline steels herself like the warrior she is, applies a smile to her lips, and walks down the aisle towards the ivy-covered lattice arch, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach and the ghosts of her memories.

Yet when her eyes meet Donnic's, her heart lifts when she sees him smile at her. There is no question in her mind, or in his, that she is doing the right thing.

When Grand Cleric Elthina pronounces them man and wife, when she shares her first kiss as a married couple with Donnic, when Hawke leads the applause, tears of pride and joy in his eyes, Aveline is no longer nervous, no longer unsure.

She is able to enjoy the wedding breakfast Hawke and his servants have laid on – rare steak, caramelised onions and baby corn, topped off with light red wine – for what it is, without worrying what she is without.

And when she retreats later that evening, taking a private moment for herself from the party, she offers a secret thanks to Wesley for guiding her once again.


	7. VII - The Chariot (no pairing)

**Upright:** Control, will power, victory, assertion, determination;  
 **Reversed:** Lack of control and direction, aggression.

The Arishok, doing battle with Isabela's ship, before the storm that shipwrecked them both.

* * *

' _Vinek kathas_! Fire!'

Forty cannons unloaded at once into the pirate ship dancing tantalisingly on the waves before them. Around a third of the shots scored a direct hit, and the Arishok nodded his approval. Parts of the enemy vessel splintered and broke off, but the ship sailed doggedly on.

' _Katara, bas_ ,' spat the Arishok. ' _Nehraa Koslun_.'

The Qunari dreadnought, riding into battle like a chariot of the ocean, would be victorious today; the Arishok was determined of that. Time to show these _basra_ what happened to those who insulted the Qun in this way.

From around him, the Arishok could hear the rest of his fleet following his lead and firing on the ship ahead, which zigzagged nimbly through the hail of cannonballs raining on it, taking minimal damage from the onslaught.

The ship was faster, smaller, and more intent in eluding than attacking the Qunari. A few shots had initially been fired in retaliation when the Arishok's dreadnought had first engaged them, but now the smaller ship seemed more concerned with simply getting away from the fleet.

Cowards. The Qunari would show them. The Arishok would assert his dominance and control over these _vashedan_ thieves, just as the Qun demanded of him and the five hundred men under his command.

'Faster,' the Arishok urged the captain at the helm. 'They cannot be allowed to escape with the Tome.'

The captain nodded, and the dreadnought lurched forward with a burst of speed. They were closing in, the Arishok noted with grim satisfaction.

There was no doubt the pirate ship's captain was a skilled one, but the will of the Qunari would not be defeated so easily. The Arishok had never lost a battle before; this, of course, was why he was the Arishok.

The Qunari beneath him on the deck had reloaded their cannons; it was time to strike again and board.

Just one more attack, and it would be all over for their enemy.

' _Teth a!_ ' the Arishok bellowed. ' _Nehraa Koslun! Ataash Qunari!_ We shall be victorious today!'

He surveyed the grey, red-blood-streaked bodies of the fierce, horned fighters who roared their obedience back at him; the thrill of the chase and his command of the battle spurred on their enthusiasm, and the Arishok felt confident that they could not lose, even with the dark clouds descending upon them, obscuring their vision of the shore.

' _Vinek kathas!_ Fire!'

Every cannon on the battleship fired with a deafening series of booms; the fleet followed suit. The Arishok readied his weapons, preparing to board, preparing to fight.

' _Anaam esaam Qun!_ '

But before he could make the leap to board, the ship careened sharply away; its hull smoking, battered but not broken, as if propelled by a spirited will to survive that the Arishok had not counted on. With one huge heave forward on the choppy waves, the ship reared forward, putting on a burst of speed that clearly confused every Qunari on board. A din of disappointment and rage rose from the soldiers on the ship; they had been relishing the battle as much as the Arishok had, and now victory had slipped away from them at the last, like a lover in the middle of the night.

The pirate ship ploughed through the increasingly rough waves, the dreadnought in hot pursuit, until the Arishok realised it was heading into a storm.

'Foolish,' the captain observed. 'They will be shipwrecked for sure.'

'And yet we cannot let them get away without the Tome,' mused the Arishok.

'If we follow, we put our own fleet in grave danger,' the captain observed.

'Either their captain is a very foolish one, or a recklessly brave one,' the Arishok agreed. 'But the Qun demands that I recover the Tome of Koslun.'

The captain paused, awaiting his command. Out of the corner of his eye, the Arishok could see hundreds of grey-and-red bodies, quietly waiting to see what the Arishok would say next.

Following the _basra_ ship into the storm – and a violent storm at that, judging by how the winds and lightning were buffeting the ship sailing away in front of them – would potentially wipe out most, if not all, of the Qunari fleet, not to mention the Arishok himself.

But not fulfilling a demand of the Qun was simply not done. He would not be worthy to be Arishok otherwise, and retreating now would condemn him and five hundred soldiers – good, obedient, Qunari soldiers – to their deaths, if they dared return to Par Vollen without the stolen Tome.

They had no choice.

' _Meravas_ ,' he said to his captain, his voice calm, certain, determined. 'So shall it be.'

He raised his axe in the air, trying to rouse the spirits of his _antaam_ once more. ' _Nehraa kadan!_ ' he roared. ' _Ataash varin kata!_ Forward into the storm!'


	8. VIII - Strength (Carver & Merrill)

**Upright:** Strength, courage, patience, control, compassion;  
 **Reversed:** Weakness, self-doubt, lack of self-discipline.

Carver and Merrill, around a campfire.

* * *

'So… I hear you've got a tattoo as well, Carver?'

Carver looked up; Merrill was staring curiously at him, large green eyes dancing in the orange light of the crackling campfire, face illuminated by the flames against the black backdrop of the night. 'Yeah,' he said. 'I got one of a Mabari. For strength. Several of us got them at Ostagar. It's not like yours, obviously.'

'Well, obviously,' Merrill agreed. 'Where is it?'

He chuckled nervously. 'Merrill. I can't possibly tell you that.'

'Why not?'

'Well, it's, erm,' he rubbed his hand across his brow, 'it's in a – private place. Well, sort of.'

'Oh,' she said. 'So I can't see it then?'

'No, you can't,' Carver started to reply, then blushed as he realised what he said. 'I mean, well, you _can_ , but right now you can't, because – erm – well, it's too dark.'

'Oh,' she said wisely, and Carver reached up to rub the back of his neck, which he was sure was as red as the rest of him. 'So… will I be able to see it in daylight then?'

'What? No! I mean, no, because – it – well, I –' He took a deep breath. 'I'd have to undress.'

Now it was Merrill's turn to blush, and she looked away, embarrassed. 'I'm so sorry,' she said quickly, and Carver wasn't sure what she was apologising for. 'I always say the stupidest things.'

Carver reached over to comfort her, then thought better of it, letting his hand drop to the ground before he could place it on her shoulder. He turned back to the fire, and frowned at the flames.

They sat in silence for a while, the silence awkward and uncomfortable between them in the dark. Behind them, Hawke snored a little, and a bedroll rustled as someone turned over in their sleep.

Merrill stood up. 'Maybe I should go back to bed,' she said, voice shaking, and Carver noticed she was shivering violently.

'Are you cold?'

She shuddered. 'A bit. I thought maybe if I wrapped up in the bedroll, that might help.'

'Sit by me,' he said gently, hoping he didn't sound too desperate for her to stay. 'I'll – I can block out the breeze, maybe that'll help?'

Merrill hesitated for a moment; to his relief, she then settled back down on the ground, next to him. He put his arm out before he could stop himself, and wrapped it round her thin, quivering body, drawing her into him. She froze for a moment, and he wondered if he'd done the wrong thing; when she sighed contentedly and relaxed against him, he breathed his own sigh of relief.

'Better?' he asked, keeping his voice light.

She nodded.

'Thank you,' she whispered, her shivers dying down.

'No problem,' he murmured into her hair.

More silence fell between them. Merrill closed her eyes against the firelight, while Carver sat there, propping her up, unable to tear his eyes away from her or move his arm from its one-armed embrace.

'You're a good person, Carver,' Merrill eventually murmured.

Carver was touched, but taken aback. 'Um. OK…?'

'I mean it,' she said softly. 'You're strong. And brave. And very good at swording. And you keep out the cold very well.'

Carver chuckled. 'Thanks, Merrill.'

She turned her face up to smile at him, and his heart flopped. 'You're good enough, _lethallin_. I just wish sometimes you could see that.'

Sometimes, Carver thought, he wished he could keep Merrill by his side everywhere he went, because when she smiled at him, he was almost able to forget all his doubts about himself. He was almost able to forget whatever it was inside him that compelled him to drink and start fist-fights and visit the Blooming Rose – much to the elder Hawke's amusement and Aveline's big-sisterly disapproval. 'Stiffen up, Carver, and focus,' Aveline often chided him, and while ostensibly she would be talking about his swordsmanship skills, and the patience and self-discipline he needed to develop to improve them, he knew she also meant all the other stuff as well.

But when Merrill smiled at him like she was doing now, face glowing in the soft firelight, lips close enough to kiss, all the strength and courage Carver prided himself on as a warrior sapped away; yet he didn't want to move from his spot, or move his arm from around her body, or do anything that might change what she'd said about him.

But he wasn't able find the words to tell Merrill any of this. So he settled on simply repeating 'Thanks, Merrill,' once again, hoping she would somehow understand everything he wanted to say, but couldn't.


End file.
